Aftermath
by AReadingRat
Summary: A few weeks after Sherlock died, Greg finds one of his sketches and then Mycroft vists. Contains spoilers for Season 2 and established Mystrade


**AN**: I saw an episode of Lewis and suddenly there was Rupert Graves as a heavily drinking artist. It was awesome – seriously, I think he is a good actor. It gave me the idea of Lestrade drawing. And then this little story went a little out of control (I just wanted to write like a 1000 words, but then Mycroft appeared and now it's closer to 3500 . . . )

Also, I think – like a lot of the other Sherlock fanfiction authors – that Greg is shortened for Gregory and it seems like a Mycroft-thing to call him by his full name instead of the nickname he goes by.

* * *

**Aftermath**

He doesn't know when the first tears start to fall.

Back leaning against the couch in his living room, Greg sits in front of the box, which contains his sketchbooks. It is one of the few things, he has never given up in his life and in a way it has never failed him until today. He loves to draw – mostly with only a pencil, but a pen will also do. Of course, they have been times when he had barely sketched anything, but those are rare and since middle school he cannot remember not carrying a sketchbook around.

Now he is staring at one of his sketches and is feeling frozen, trapped in memories. He has randomly chosen one of the earlier sketchbooks to compare it to his now latest full one. He has done that before. But he has not stumbled over one of his sketches and suddenly Sherlock is there on the pages – alive and grinning smugly, after six weeks of being the image of a corpse on the autopsy table with a terrible head wound and blood all over him.

He has to admit it is one of his better sketches. It is something he has drawn from memory. Sherlock is walking down the Portobello Road Market at night, his grin showing he has solved the case. His coat is flying dramatically in the wind, which Greg might have exaggerated, and his hair is more unruly than usual. His eyes – so difficult to draw, to capture the expression, the colour and the lighting – are gleaming. Behind him trails John, poor John, like a happy puppy. Grinning, he looks up to Sherlock and when the DI remembers the scene, he thinks, he can recall Sherlock's short glance at John and the widening of the genius' grin. The houses and stands are only roughly sketched, but Sherlock and John exist on the page in all shades of grey and a little white where Lestrade has set the highlights.

It kills him to see Sherlock like this. So alive and well . . . Not like the Sherlock he remembers, not the body, which lay in the morgue, even paler in death than in real life, the horrifying head wound and his dead and open eyes. He cannot believe Sherlock is dead and he still has problems with it. He has seen Sherlock's body naked before thanks to the other one's drug addiction and something had been wrong about the corpse in the morgue. Maybe it is not Sherlock's corpse, but then he has to ask himself where Sherlock is and who the body is. Maybe it is just that he has never seen Sherlock lying this still. In the end however, he does not know whether that wrongness of Sherlock's corpse is his imagination running wild or if consulting detective really is alive.

He hopes it is the latter.

John comes to his mind. He tries to push the thoughts away, but fails. If he thinks about John, it will get so much worse. He knows it and therefore tries not to recall the doctor's face at the funeral. Poor John, who just had gone back to living, back to the battlefield as Mycroft called it, had lost his flatmate – whether they lovers or friends, it did not matter, they were close either way.

Greg still stares at the sketch, without seeing it. He only notices his vision blurs and that is the moment he feels the first tear run down his cheek. It is the first time he cries for the loss of Sherlock, brilliant detective he is . . . was. He doesn't know when he starts sobbing violently, pressing the sketchbook to his chest and hugging it tightly.

For a long while he sits like this – crying his heart out. Sherlock will not come back. He has to accept it, but it still does not make things easy.

And if he did, Greg would punch him, then shout at him and then hug him.

There is a soft knock on the door. Greg stares at his front door and debates whether he should open it or not. He still holds the sketchbook tightly pressed to his chest, his eyes are almost certainly red and he can feel the tear tracks on his face. With the sleeve of his hooded sweatshirt he brushes them away. There is another knock and the DI slowly stands up. His body protests against sitting motionless for so long, reminding he has got older, and maybe he really should not sit in front of his couch for hours. Carefully he pads over to the door, nearly silently, even on the wooden floor, which usually creaks. He is not quite sure why he is opening the door. Maybe it is the fact that the person behind it had not used the bell. Maybe it has been the softness of the knocking, which had got him going.

Standing in front of his flat door, he stands motionless for a moment, hand outstretched, just barely touching the door's handle. Then he shakes his head and simply opens the door.

To say he is surprised does not quite fit. He has expected the other one, but not today.

On the other side of the door stands Mycroft. His hair is wet and starts to curl. It now bears much more resemblance to Sherlock's. He is paler than usual, which makes the rings beneath his eyes stand out even more. The tie around his neck has loosened – or has been loosened and sits askew. The shoulders of his suit are wet as well and it does not quite fit him anymore, like he has lost weight in a short time. All in all the elder – and now only – Holmes-brother looks terrible, standing in the DI's doorway and leaning heavily unto the umbrella. Greg wants to hug the other one, tell him it's okay and he is sorry for not taking better care of Sherlock. He does not do it though because he is not certain how Mycroft will react – if he either remains as stoic as he usually pretends to be or if he simply breaks down. And quite frankly, Greg doesn't know what he would prefer.

It takes a moment for Lestrade to realise he does not look any better. His spiky hair most likely has now more in common with a hedgehog or porcupine. The hooded sweatshirt he is wearing is one of his older ones. Its dark blue is not so blue anymore and there are stains from cooking on it. The even more faded jeans he wears is ripped, but not artistically, but it is so comfortable he does not want throw it away. And that is only his clothing. Mycroft most likely also sees the dried tear tracks, the red-rimmed eyes, the bitten bottom lip.

It takes another moment before Mycroft breaks the silence and says: "I'm sorry, Gregory, if I have disturbed you. I can leave."

Greg has already started to shake his head, before Mycroft has even finished the last sentence: "Nonsense, come in. I make tea."

He shuffles aside and closes the door behind Mycroft, who slumps even further, when he is inside, looking so tired and exhausted, Lestrade is not sure if the tall man is going to fall over any moment. After making sure the tall man does not in fact fall over when he takes of his shoes, Greg starts to go through the familiar motions of making tea. He already feels calmer as he puts the hot water on, takes out the tea and starts to count the spoons – two, plus one for the pot. He can barely suppress a small, sad smile when he thinks about his father's remark. If everything else fails, the British make tea. The thought of his father is as soothing as making tea. He should probably phone the old man – or his parents in general. They have not heard of him in a quite while.

Mycroft comes into the kitchen. He has got rid of the shoes, tie and jacket and has unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt. Sinking down on one of the kitchen chairs he takes out his mobile and turns it to silent. It is at least, what Lestrade guesses he does.

They stay silent until the tea is finished and they have sat opposite of each other at the small kitchen table, both hugging their mugs of freshly brewed tea. Only then, Greg says: "I have not expected you here."

Mycroft glances up and suddenly he looks so vulnerable and open. It is the same look, which sometimes passes . . . passed Sherlock's face, when he had received a particular bad insult or an unpredictable harsh answer.

Greg bits the inside of his lips, then puts his hand on Mycroft's arm in a gesture of silent support. He is surprised by how cold and clammy the other one's arm feels. Mycroft closes his eyes. Swallows. He opens his eyes again, but looks at everything else but Greg. Then he whispers: "I cannot do it alone."

Greg's grip on Mycroft's arm tightens and he says: "You don't have to do it alone."

He doesn't say he understands. He is not sure if he does and a theory without proof is worthless as Sherlock has told him a long time ago. He has given Mycroft the space the other man needed after his brother's death because he has not been sure how the other one would have reacted. He has kept in touch with Anita, Anthea or simply A though and had sent messages to Mycroft to which the replies had been short and court and always ending with something along the lines of 'I'm busy'.

"Are you still . . . ?" Mycroft leaves the sentence hanging and simply breaks off, looking at the hand on his arm.

"Yes, I am still there for you and I will remain so."

When Mycroft speaks again, his voice is thick and in his eyes shine unshed tears: "Thank you, Gregory. I thought it was better that way, keeping distance and it would help me to move on. It hasn't."

Greg gently brushes his thumb over the piece of skin between shirt and watch. He does not say anything and waits for Mycroft to do so. He does it after another moment of silence: "I thought it was better for you to not see me."

He snorts because – quite frankly, Mycroft doesn't make any goddamn sense. Actually little does make sense right now.

"Why?", he asks. Even in the short word, he can hear the annoyance, exhaustion and weariness, which usually just overcomes him, when he is dealing with Sherlock and a case.

"I killed him."

The sentence hangs in the air and Greg does not quite know what to make of it. And so he asks: "Have you pushed him off the roof?"

He doesn't know if he has meant it as a crude joke or if he really believes Mycroft has pushed Sherlock from the roof.

"I might as well have."

"Okay, explain." It almost comes out as an order and he feels Mycroft tense beneath his hand. He feels the annoyance of obeying an order and the will not to do so. Rebels in their own ways, those Holmes-brothers, he thinks by himself.

"Moriaty. We got a hold of him. He told us he had a key to get into every building, bank, whatsoever. He threatened to sell it. He did not talk – except to me and only then in exchange for information about Sherlock. I gave him the information, but . . . there is no key. And I gave him all the information he needed to kill Sherlock." Mycroft breaks off and stares into his empty mug, hands gripping it tightly. He visibly braces himself for the DI to speak, to condemn him.

Greg doesn't do it. He simply sighs before he stands up. He takes the empty mugs and puts them into the sink. He is tired, exhausted – most likely from crying. He does not want to think, doesn't want to process what Mycroft has just told him. He has expected himself to be angry, but it is either the weariness or the fact he has been with Mycroft for a very long time. The decision of providing someone with information about his brother would not have been an easy one. He thinks about the key and suddenly he understands the implications of such a key. A key to everything – every building, every network, simply everything. In the wrong hands it is a dangerous weapon. Giving it to a terrorist group meant, it could cause massive damage and cost a lot of civilian lives, giving it to a company, who uses for gathering intelligence on other companies and it could cause massive economical problems or maybe worse and give it to someone in government who uses it to rise to power by bribing and espionage.

"The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few", he mutters to himself as he begins to clean the mugs.

"What?" He does not turn around to look at Mycroft, knowing he has received a disbelieving glance. He is not so sure whether it was because of the movie quote or maybe of trying to understand Mycroft's decision.

"I know it's a movie line, but it sums Utilitarianism up rather nicely. Jeremy Bentham has a very similar quote."

He does not see the older Holmes-brother, but he practically can feel the other one nodding. Sighing he walks again over to Mycroft and puts a hand on the other one's shoulder: "You have not pushed him off the roof though. It was his decision."

"It was not. Moriaty had three snipers."

"So, he would have died anyway . . ."

"You do not understand." Barely suppressed anger swings in Mycroft's voice. He is clearly upset. "He had three snipers on Sherlock's friends."

Greg blinks. Three snipers . . . He feels his throat tighten. John would of course had been among them and what irony that would have been – living through the dangers of war only to be shot by a sniper at home. But the other two? Most likely Mrs. Hudson, the good landlady, who put up with Sherlock, the mess he made and hours he kept. He doesn't even want to imagine standing beside her corpse, blood pooling around her. Nevertheless . . .

"So, John and Mrs. Hudson . . . but you said three?" He does not know the third one. Sherlock never had many friends, so he supposes it might have been a childhood friend – maybe even Mycroft.

"Are you really . . .?" Mycroft breaks off. His voice is hoarse, his hand balled into fists with knuckles white. Greg can feel the barely suppressed anger. He is confused, tired and does not quite know if he really wants to know, who the third person is.

Mycroft stands up abruptly. Greg's hand on his shoulder falls to his own side. The face of the older Holmes-brother displays a battle of emotions. There is anger, worry, surprise and something else, that the DI cannot quite grasp. Suddenly all is gone and only worry remains, paired with an all present tiredness, which creeps back into his features.

When Mycroft finally decides to speak, his voice is barely above a whisper: "It was you, Greg."

Greg feels like Mycroft has punched him in the gut. Or like he is falling.

He takes a shaky breath, then another one.

He rubs over his face with one hand.

He realises he is shaking.

It is a pure shock reaction – he knows those, though he usually observes them on other people. But he has never expected . . . he has not considered himself to be one of Sherlock's friends because the stupid git said he hadn't got any friends and so Lestrade had simply and only taken care of him. He has never considered himself to be close to Sherlock. He always thought himself to be more of a tool for Sherlock – something that got him cases to occupy his mind with. That is the first thing, which shocks him.

The second thing is the sniper rifle. He has never expected to be in the crosshair, never thought about it because snipers belonged into conflicts, not into London. Just a blink, maybe a sharp pain and then nothing – he would have been dead.

"Gregory!"

He is shaken and the tone is sharp, full of concern, which makes Greg snap out of it. Hands are on his shoulder and Mycroft looks him directly in the eyes.

"I'm fine", he manages to say. His voice cracks at the end. He knows he is not fine, not even close to okay. Mycroft knows this as well and so the grip only lessens slightly.

Greg drops his head, staring at the floor. He trembles and feels strangely cold. He sees Mycroft stepping closer and then is pulled very carefully into a very gentle kiss. His eyes fall shut and a tear slips down his right cheek, followed by another on his left. He presses closer to Mycroft, arms around the other one's neck, while Mycroft's arms are around his waist. The kiss does not last long, but they stay embraced like this, standing in the DI's small kitchen.

Greg feels the arms around his waist tighten. He hears a soft sob beside his ear and also tightens his hold. The gentle sobs turn into harsh one between which they are softly murmured phrases like 'I'm sorry', 'I'm glad you are alive', 'I cannot believe he's not here' and also 'I love you'. Greg feels his own tears again and for a moment he wonders whether he has not cried enough today, but he still cannot believe Sherlock is dead and gone. He mutters back 'I love you, too' and more phrases, he cannot remember later on.

When they both fall silent, they still remain embraced. Only when Greg feels Mycroft's body grow heavy, he says: "We should go to bed."

He can feel the answering nod. They break apart, but not completely as Greg takes Mycroft's hand and starts to lead him out of the kitchen. The elder Holmes pauses for a moment and then asks with a voice thick with emotions and rough from crying: "Did you draw this?"

Greg looks and sees the still opened sketchbook, which lies on the counter. He nods and then says, when Mycroft does not look up: "Yeah – a few months back. We had this case in Notting Hill. Sherlock came along as we arrested the suspect since he found the case especially interesting. God, I don't even know why anymore."

"Could you . . . could you tell me about it?" Mycroft enquires. He is asking as if he is expecting an outright rejection. Maybe because speaking about Sherlock is painful, but he wants to know what life his brother has lead and if he has been happy – one of the things surveillance and cameras cannot tell.

Greg squeezes the younger man's hand and smiles. It is a wistful smile, but a smile nonetheless. He says softly: "I tell you in the morning, okay? And I could also show you some other sketches and tell you the stories behind those. There are quite a few of Sherlock and John, okay?"

"It sounds good", Mycroft says. He tries to smile, but it does not seem right and he looks to the ground. In those rare moments, Greg doesn't see the brilliant brain the man possesses, the power he wields as easily as his umbrella or the sharp wit, which makes him manoeuvre people like chess pieces. In this moment he sees a man, who may have been naïve at once, who very much tries to be a good brother and just desperately needs someone to hold him.

Greg tugs at Mycroft hand and without another word the other one follows him to the bedroom with the double bed in it. They dress down to their underwear and slip into bed, both too tired to care about the clothes littering the floor.

Greg is not even lying quite in their bed, when Mycroft starts to wrap around him, one long leg thrown over his, head resting on his shoulder and his right hand with the ring on the DI's heart. Greg puts his chin on Mycroft's head and pulls him if possible even closer with his right arm, while his left comes to a rest over Mycroft's right.

"I love you, Gregory."

"I love you, too, Mycroft."

There is nothing more to be said and in the morning, Lestrade is surprised to see – even though blinking against the sun – they have not moved during the night and Mycroft is still curled against his side.

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**AN**: Thanks for reading. Since English is not my mother tongue and I'm haven't got a beta-reader, there can be some mistakes. Please, point them out to me :)


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